Why Dean Lies
by trueunbeliever
Summary: Third new school this year and Dean knows nothing's going to change. That is, until he meets a first grader on the playground named Sam. There's just something about the kid that makes Dean want to tell him the truth. Warning: Depictions of child abuse. COMPLETE. Please review :) All comments are welcome.
1. Monday

Summary: Third new school this year and Dean knows nothing's going to change. That is, until he meets a first grader on the playground named Sam. There's just something about the kid that makes Dean want to tell him the truth.

_**A/N: This is a (sort of) rewrite of my earlier story, Dean Lies. It follows Dean through the events leading up to that story, so it's also sort of a prequel? Either way, this fic is a stand-alone. A 'companion piece' is probably a better word for it. It's compliments my other story, but you don't have to read it to understand. Now that I'm done confusing you... This was written in response to the song "Alyssa Lies" by **__**Jason Michael Carroll. Thanks to** _pryde23 _**for asking that I continue. **_

_**WARNING: Contains depictions of child abuse. May contain triggering material.**_

_**Read on...**_

* * *

**Why Dean Lies**

* * *

1. Monday

* * *

Dean picked at the tear in his pant leg while he waited for the bus.

McKinley Elementary was his third new school this year. He was halfway done with the fifth grade, but in those six years of elementary, he'd been transferred around over a dozen times through five different districts. He stood on the sidewalk, watching the bus turn the corner to pick him up, and knew that there wouldn't be anything different about this school.

Dean stepped onto the bus, blatantly ignoring the bus driver's attempt at a greeting. He chose a seat near the front and sat with his knees up on the seat in front of him, just watching the houses blur past the window until they reached the school.

Like the bus, the school was loud. Rowdy children ran in circles, yelling and screaming and yelping and calling while they played with each other. Dean rolled his eyes and scanned the playground for a quiet spot to sit. His leg didn't hurt so much that he couldn't walk on it, but he didn't want anyone asking about his limp.

No one seemed to want to play around the swing set, preferring to run in the field and chase each other around, so Dean sunk down onto the ground, looking at a set of tires to his left that he could only guess the use for. Why would anyone want to play with tires?

"Hi, I'm Sam."

Dean startled at the voice, high and trilling even though there was no mistaking the kid for anything but a boy. About a thousand years younger and only half as cute as Dean, the kid watched him with curiosity. "Go away," Dean said.

"There's bees over here," Sam informed him.

Dean looked at him curiously.

"That's why no one's playing. It's 'cause of the bees. They're s'posed to take them out tomorrow." Sam smiled, obviously proud of himself for helping, but Dean didn't care.

"I said, go away. Leave me alone, kid."

"Are you scared?" Sam asked, and Dean had enough experience to know that he wasn't teasing.

"What?"

"Mr. Bowen says that when people don't wanna be your friend it's 'cause they're scared. What are you scared of?"

Dean grimaced. "I ain't scare of nothing," he growled.

Sam's smile was so wide that Dean thought his cheeks would crack. "Then you wanna play with me on the swings?" he asked.

Dean scoffed. "Thought you said there were bees."

"Yep. Lots of 'em."

Dean sighed. "Then go over there and play with the other kids," Dean said, waving him off toward the other side of the field.

"No. I wanna play here."

Sam wasn't making any sense, not that Dean expected a kindergartener to make any sense. They were still practically _babies_ after all. There was only so much they could think before their brains turned to mush. "Idiot," he mumbled.

Sam pursed his lips and set his hands on his hips. "That's not a nice word. Mr. Bowen says that you're not s'posed to call people names that they don't like, 'specially if they're not nice words."

"Yeah?" Dean challenged. "Well Mr. Bowen sounds like an idiot."

Dean expected him to cry or get mad, maybe even both. He didn't expect the kid to laugh.

"That's what Joey said once," Sam explained through his grin. "He got in lots of trouble, but everyone laughed 'cause it was funny. You're funny," he said, surprising Dean once again. "I like you."

Something warmed in Dean's chest, something he'd already decided that he wanted to keep cold as ice, but he couldn't help it. The kid—who was still pretty much a baby, by the way—was hard not to like.

"Wanna play on the swings with me?" Sam asked.

"I can't play with a kindergartener. That's stupid."

"I'm in _first grade_. Not kindergarten. So it's okay, right?"

Dean shook his head. "You don't get it. I'm a _fifth grader_. You're too _little_ to play with me."

"Mr. Bowen says that it doesn't matter if you're a boy or a girl or big or small or anything. We can all be friends at school." But Sam's eyes were filling with tears and his chin was trembling in a way that had Dean wanting to keep the look off of his face.

He hated that he'd made the kid sad. Just because he was miserable didn't mean that Sam should be too.

"Okay," Dean relented.

"What?"

"I said, okay. Let's play on the swings."

Sam's smile was as small as Dean's, but it was there, and that something in his chest warmed again at the sight of it. Even if he got stung by a bee while playing with the stupid first grader, it would probably even be worth it.

"You okay?" Sam asked, sitting on his own swing and kicking his legs back and forth while Dean walked to the swing beside him.

"Yeah," Dean said. "I'm awesome."

"You sure? 'Cause you're walking funny."

"I, uh… I fell," he lied.

"Oh."

That was all they said while they swung on the swing set, pushing themselves higher and higher until the bell rang to signal the beginning of school.

* * *

Dean stared at the floor in horror, watching the beer spread out in a large puddle toward the living room.

"_Dean!_ Where's my beer?" came the call from the couch.

"C –coming!" he stuttered, grabbing another bottle from the fridge and skipping over the spill on the floor. "Here, sir," Dean said. He handed his father the cold beer and watched him take a sip, praying that it wasn't too warm or too cold or that it wasn't the right one.

"Thanks."

Dean was stunned. _Thanks_. A smile broke out at the word while he stared at his father, drinking on the couch, watching the boxing match with rapt attention. Then the eyes glanced toward him.

"Why do you keep staring? Something interesting?"

Dean looked away.

"I asked you a question." Dean knew the tone.

"No. Nothing, sir."

"Then wipe that smirk off your face and go play or something."

Dean took the dismissal and went back into the kitchen, staring down at the mess on the floor. He grabbed the roll of paper towels and laid them out over the still-spreading beer, hoping to soak it up. Five, ten, fifteen paper towels and there was still more. How much liquid could one stupid bottle hold?

"What the _hell is this_?!"

Dean grimaced at the words, his arms falling to his sides in defeat. He wasn't fast enough. And now his father would know that he messed up. Again. "I accidentally spilled something," he admitted.

"Of course you did," his father scoffed. "And now I'm gonna have to spend the next half hour cleaning up after you. Isn't that just great?" he wondered sarcastically.

"I'll clean it," he offered, trying to make it better. He was always doing this, making his father mad.

"Yeah, a lot of good you're doing so far," he motioned to the haphazard array of paper towels. "Don't even know how to clean up your own damn mess. What the hell did you spill anyway?"

Dean swallowed hard. "Well, I was going to give you the bottle, but I accidentally tripped over the chair and when I fell, it rolled and was spilling it—"

"You spilled one of my beers?"

Dean nodded, ashamed.

"And instead of grabbing the damn mop, you just thought you'd waste a whole fucking roll of paper towels," he finished.

He nodded again. He'd completely forgotten about the mop. _Stupid_. _Wasteful_.

"You're just trying to piss me off now, aren't you?"

Dean shook his head. "No," he said. "I swear, it was an accident. And I didn't mean—"

"There's no way you can be this worthless. I send you in here for one lousy drink and you have to go and fuck it all up," his father said, voice rising.

Dean let the words wash over him. His father was right. He couldn't do anything. He couldn't even walk a freaking _beer_ to the living room. _Worthless_.

"You're _ten years old_, Dean!" His father rolled up his sleeves and wrenched the paper towels from his hands.

Dean flinched, but didn't make a move otherwise. He deserved whatever he got.

"Go to your room. I don't wanna have to deal with you right now. I'm done."

Dean turned and ran up the stairs, nearly crying as he caught the tail end of his father's next words.

"Goddam ungrateful prick…"

* * *

_**A/N: Not all child abuse is physical. Emotional abuse and neglect hurt a child just as much as a physical wound, some would argue more so. **_


	2. Tuesday

Summary: Third new school this year and Dean knows nothing's going to change. That is, until he meets a first grader on the playground named Sam. There's just something about the kid that makes Dean want to tell him the truth.

* * *

2. Tuesday

* * *

Dean knew he shouldn't be disappointed, but he was.

He walked—no limp this time—to the deserted swing set and sat down, not bothering to do anything but kick his feet in the dirt. He didn't know why he was so angry. Sam was just a stupid kid, a baby first grader with girly hair who'd almost cried when Dean told him to go away. He didn't want to hang out with him anyway, so he twisted on the swing and listened to all the stupid screaming kids on the field, wondering why the hell they were all so freaking happy.

"You look sleepy."

Dean looked up from the ground to see Sam standing right in front of him. "I didn't sleep last night," he said, wondering why he was talking to such a little kid in the first place.

"Don't you have a bed time?" Sam asked curiously, sitting down on the swing next to him.

"No," Dean scoffed. "I'm not a baby like you." He immediately felt bad. He shouldn't have said that.

But Sam shrugged it off. "You don't hafta be a baby to have a bed time. A bed time is so that you know you get enough sleep so you can do things tomorrow."

"Let me guess," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "Mr. Bowen."

Sam shook his head. "My dad. He has a bed time too. He goes to sleep everyday at ten and I go to sleep at nine and we both get lots of sleep like we're s'posed to. You should go to sleep at nine like me."

It was Dean's turn to shrug. It didn't matter when he tried to sleep; he wouldn't be able to anyway.

Sam took off on the swings, kicking his legs until he was up higher than Dean's head. "Dean look!" he laughed. "I'm bigger than you!"

Dean smiled and shook his head. "Not for long," he teased, kicking his own legs so he was up nearly as high as Sam.

He was surprised to find how much he liked playing with the first grader. Too smart for his own good, that's what his father would say, but Dean didn't mind it. Sam _was_ smart, but he was also nice, and Dean liked him.

The air was cold when it whooshed past his face and his stomach dropped with every swing forward, but he kept going, kicking himself higher and higher until everything he was thinking just two minutes before couldn't be heard over Sam's laughter, and he was sure he could touch the sky if only he could kick just that little bit higher.

Kick.

Whoosh.

Laugh.

Kick.

Whoosh.

Laugh.

Kick.

Whoosh.

Lau –_scream_.

Dean skidded to a stop on the swings, digging his heels into the dirt, not caring that it made his leg hurt again.

"Sam? Sam, you okay?"

Sam sat on the ground, cradling his leg and crying. He shook his head, flopping his hair over his forehead.

"What happened?" he asked. "Why are you crying?"

"I –I –I –It _hurts_," Sam cried, hugging his leg closer to keep Dean from seeing.

"C'mon, Sam," Dean said, trying to loosen the kid's hands. "I gotta see so I can make sure you're okay."

"But it hurts," Sam sobbed, though his hands fell from his leg to let Dean get at it.

Dean smiled when he saw it, a tiny black speck right under his knee. "It's a bee stinger," he said. He pinched it and pulled it out, holding it up for Sam to see.

Sam looked at it and shook his head. "It's too small to be it," he said, sniffling. "It was a bigger hurt."

But Dean knew how bad a bee sting stung. "Just 'cause it's small," he told Sam, "Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt a lot."

Sam wiped his tears on his sleeves and smiled at him.

All Dean could do was wonder was how the heck he'd managed to earn it.

* * *

"_Dean_!"

Dean flinched as the front door slammed, and he knew he was in trouble. He stared longingly at his bed, wanting to to hide under it, but it never worked to do anything but make him madder, so he stayed where he was in the middle of his room, waiting for the inevitable.

"Come here, _now_!" his father called.

The hard tone had him obeying immediately. He took the stairs one at a time, wanting to linger, but knowing that he couldn't. When he reached the bottom, his father stood furiously by the front door, eyes blazing.

"You wanna tell me why I got a phone call from your teacher, in the middle of my shift?" His hands were clenched into fists, and Dean knew that this time, he wasn't going to walk away with dry eyes.

Dean couldn't look at him, couldn't keep his eyes above his father's fists. "I… hit a kid at school," he mumbled, ashamed.

"Speak up. I can't understand a word you're saying."

"I hit someone at school," he repeated, louder this time, eyes falling lower to stare at his father's shoes. There was silence while Dean waited for the fallout.

"I just can't catch my break with you. Two days, Dean. Two fucking days you've been at this school and you're already causing trouble. It's like I never taught you any manners with the way you've been acting."

There was a crash of keys falling into the dish by the door, and Dean couldn't help but flinch at the unexpected noise. His father walked closer, boots stomping heavily in anger. He grabbed Dean's chin and forced his head up, stretching his neck to the point of pain.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," his father growled.

Dean's eyes flew up immediately.

"You wanna tell me what the _hell_ you were thinking?"

He couldn't help the tears that built in his eyes. "I was just—"

"You quit your crying right now or I'll give you a reason to cry."

Dean cleared his throat—painfully from the angle of his neck—and tried again. "I was just trying to get outside and some kids were pushing me…"

"So you thought it'd be a great idea to _hit them?_ Why am I not surprised?" he continued without waiting for an answer. "You listen to me, Dean. If I _ever_ get a call from your school again, I will not hesitate to beat you bloody…"

His father released his chin and Dean looked down again, thankful he wouldn't have to look at him while he was so angry. He hated that it was always _him_ who put that look there. His father wasn't ever mad at other people. It was always Dean, always his fault that his father was so miserable. It was because of him that they couldn't afford to stay in one place for more than a couple of months.

Because he was selfish.

Because he was wasteful.

If it wasn't for him, his father wouldn't ever be angry. His mom wouldn't have left, and his father would be happy all the time. He'd said so, and Dean just knew it was true. Look at everything he'd done so far. Two days at school and he was already in trouble. He was ten years old, not a baby. He shouldn't need his father to keep him in line. He should be able to be good all on his own. Why did he have to keep failing?

"…are you listening to me?"

Dean nodded his head. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Then snap to it."

Dean ran up the stairs and went into the second room on the left. The only time he was ever allowed to enter his father's room was when he was in real trouble, like he was now. He opened the closet door and grabbed the belt, barely making sure to close it again before he headed downstairs to give it to his father.

"Why do you always make me do this, Dean?" his father asked.

"I'm sorry." It was the only thing he could think of to say. And it was true. He _was_ sorry. For everything. "I'm sorry."

* * *

_**A/N: Physical abuse isn't always easy to spot. Excessive discipline is one of the more common forms. **_


	3. Wednesday

Summary: Third new school this year and Dean knows nothing's going to change. That is, until he meets a first grader on the playground named Sam. There's just something about the kid that makes Dean want to tell him the truth.

_**A/N: This is the final chapter of Why Dean Lies. Whenever you're ready, read on...**_

* * *

3. Wednesday

* * *

Dean saw the kid coming this time.

Sam grinned as he bounded through the near-empty field until he was right in front of Dean.

Dean reached out and ruffled his hair, laughing when Sam pulled back in mock anger. He knew what real anger looked like enough to know that Sam wasn't actually mad.

"They took away the bees," Sam said forlornly.

"Thanks, genius." Dean rolled his eyes. "I wouldn't have guessed from all the kids on the swing set.

Sam pouted. "I don't ever get to school early enough to get a turn."

If anything, Dean was grateful that the swings were occupied. He didn't think he could kick himself high enough without feeling yesterday's punishment. "I'll save you a spot tomorrow," he promised. "My bus usually gets here first."

Sam's smile was enough that Dean didn't care that it would still definitely hurt; he was going to swing with Sam.

"Promise?" Sam asked.

"Promise."

"It's gonna be awesome!" the kid exclaimed. "I never get to swing before school when there's other kids around."

"Well, now you're gonna." Dean felt a pang when he shifted his weight to the other foot. "What do you wanna do now?"

Sam shrugged. "Whatever you wanna do."

"How about we go in the field? No one's there now 'cause the bees are gone."

"Okay." Sam took off running, and Dean followed, jogging slowly behind him, wincing with every step.

"You still look sleepy," Sam commented once they reached their destination. "You didn't have a bed time last night?"

Dean shook his head. "I tried, but I couldn't sleep."

Sam nodded knowingly. "Sometimes, I can't sleep when it's too dark."

"Me neither," Dean found himself saying. He didn't want to admit it, but that was the reason he'd been up. Crying always wore him out, and he'd been exhausted, but his room was too dark and the house was too quiet and he just couldn't fall sleep.

"The grass is nice and soft. And it's bright 'cause it's morning. You can sleep now," Sam offered. "I'll wake you up when we have to go inside."

"I don't know," Dean said skeptically, but he went down on the grass anyway, lying gingerly on his stomach and sighing in contentment.

"Comfy?" Sam asked, sitting cross-legged next to him.

Dean nodded.

Sam picked a piece of grass off of his pants. "I wish we had a blanket," he said.

Dean smiled. "Nah," he said. "I'm good. The grass is nice." He shifted a little to rest his head on his arms, not noticing that his shirt rode up in back with the movement.

Sam's surprised gasp had Dean glancing up at him in question. "Dean," he whispered, scared.

Dean was up on all fours immediately, using the leverage he had to stand on two legs. He looked around the field, ready to face whatever had had Sam so scared, but there wasn't anyone near them.

"Sam?" Dean asked, turning back around to face him. "What's the matter? You okay?"

"You're hurt real bad," Sam said, horrified.

"What?"

Sam stood up and reached for his shirt, trying to lift it up. "On your back. I saw…"

"I fell," he lied, pulling his shirt down vehemently and batting Sam's hands away.

"Nuh-uh," Sam protested. "I fall all the time and it never looks like that."

"Well, I fall all the time too," Dean countered angrily. "And it looks like that."

"You're lying," Sam said simply. "Why are you lying?"

"I'm not lying. I just fell down. It doesn't even hurt, Sammy."

Sam glared. "My name's Sam, and you're a liar. You're not s'posed to lie to your friends."

Dean wanted to stay angry, but Sam's lower lip began trembling then, and he didn't know what to do. More than anything, he didn't want Sam to know how bad he was, that he ruined everything no matter how hard he tried, but Sam was right; you didn't lie to your friends.

"You have to promise," Dean said, hating himself for even thinking of telling someone, admitting out loud that he was rotten, especially to someone who thought of him as a friend, but this was _Sam_, and he couldn't lie to the kid. "You have to promise not to tell anyone, ever."

Sam didn't say anything.

"I'm serious," Dean told him. "You said that friends don't lie to each other, so I'm not gonna lie to you, but friends also make promises, and they have to keep them or they aren't friends anymore."

Sam looked like he was thinking about it. When he finally nodded, Dean released a breath he didn't even realize he'd been holding.

"Okay," Sam said. "Promise."

Dean nodded, accepting it. He looked around one more time, making sure no one was around to hear them.

There wasn't.

"I got in trouble yesterday," he admitted shamefully.

Sam was confused.

Dean waited for a response, but the silence dragged on.

"And?" Sam asked.

"And I got a beating," Dean said. _Obviously._

"A beating?"

Dean sighed. He really didn't want to talk about it. "Yeah," he whispered, sinking back down on the grass so he wouldn't have to watch Sam get mad at him too when he told him. "I got in trouble at school and they called my dad at work. He was real mad when he got home. I got the belt."

"You mean…" Sam's voice was quiet, like Deans. "You mean, he _hit_ you?"

Dean nodded. This was the part he was scared of, when Sam realized that he was a bad kid and that he didn't want to hang out with him anymore.

"We gotta tell a teacher!" Sam nearly yelled.

Dean shushed him.

"You gotta tell," Sam continued, whispering fiercely. "No one's s'posed to hit no one, 'specially not grown ups."

Dean looked at him like he was stupid. "If dads didn't hit kids, they wouldn't learn nothing."

Sam shook his head and knelt down, hair flopping around, smacking him in the forehead. "My dad never hits me 'cause he loves me and he's not a bully. If someone's picking on you, you gotta tell, even if it's a grown up."

"You don't know anything," Dean said angrily. "You're just a stupid kid. You don't know anything…"

Sam's trembling chin was back, but he stood up and put his hands on his hips in a way that Dean recognized as the kid about to _really_ argue. "I know that I'm gonna tell Ms. May 'cause you shouldn't keep being bullied."

Dean was mad. He stood up and mimicked Sam, placing his hands on his own hips. "You can't," he said. "You promised, and you're not my friend if you break a promise."

Sam's arms fell to his sides, and he looked away. "Fine," he said. "I won't tell."

Dean breathed a sigh of relief just as the bell rang for school.

He walked next to Sam across the field, but he could tell that Sam was still mad.

"You okay, sweetie?" Ms. May asked Dean when they came into view.

"Huh?" Dean asked, staying out of arm's reach.

"You got a nice looking bruise on your arm there," she said.

Dean looked at it in confusion. With everything else that happened, he'd completely forgotten about that one. "Yeah," he said. "I fell."

Nothing, not even his father, could have made him feel more ashamed in that moment, but for a whole different reason than usual. He couldn't get Sam's words out of his head. Even though he was scared, he wanted to tell someone. He wanted someone to say what Sam did, that no one should ever hurt him. He wanted someone to say that he wasn't a bad kid, even if he knew it wasn't true. In the end, though, fear won out.

"It doesn't hurt, though. I'm okay."

* * *

"What the hell did you just say to me?"

Dean swallowed hard. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"You listen to me. I am your father. That means that I can discipline you however I see fit, and I'm not liking this attitude one bit, you hear me?"

Dean cast his gaze down, trying to stop the tears that were coursing down his cheeks. "I didn't mean to."

"Yeah," his father scoffed. "I'm sure it just happened all on its own."

Dean wiped his nose on his sleeve, not arguing with him even though he wanted to. It was all Sam's fault that he'd said it in the first place. If he'd never even met the stupid first grader, then he wouldn't be in trouble.

Dean frowned when he realized he was blaming it all on his new friend. Sam hadn't done anything wrong. _He_ wasn't the one who'd told his father that he was being mean when he got slapped earlier; Dean had. Sam was a good kid, never had to get slapped for talking back. Dean did though, and it was only then, with his father looking down at him in anger, that he realized his father had been going easy on him.

He was an idiot. _Stupid_. His father had been content with a small smack to his face, and Dean just had to keep _pushing it_.

His father glared at him. He was furious, Dean could tell, and with good reason.

_We all make mistakes sometimes, but you're not a bad kid, Dean. _The words echoed in his head from his meeting with Ms. Carson. He'd _hit_ someone yesterday, but the principal had still told him he was a good kid. Dean knew he wasn't, not at all. He ruined everything.

But the way she said it, so sure that she was right… it hurt, and he didn't know why.

"You and your smart fucking mouth."

His father reach for him, and Dean had no idea what got into him, but he ran.

"Get back here, you little shit. I'm not done with you."

He didn't care that he was breaking any rules. All that mattered was that he got as far away as possible. He was a _good _kid. Sam said so, and Ms. Carson. He was _good_, not bad.

His rounded the corner into the kitchen quickly, snaking his arm out to catch the lip of the door jamb so he didn't have to slow down to turn. The back door was always unlocked, always, even at night. Dean tried it and the knob turned easily under his fingers just as his father's arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him, kicking and screaming, into the living room.

"I don't know what's gotten into you," his father sneered. "But you're in for a world of hurt if you think I'm gonna let you get away with this attitude you've sprouted."

Dean tried to find enough leverage to pull himself from his father's grip, but all he succeeded in doing was angering him further.

"_Ow_, fuck!" his father yelled when Dean accidentally kneed him.

Then Dean was flying through the air and landing awkwardly on his injured leg. He felt it twist beneath him, and he screamed out in pain.

"Goddammit!" his father yelled at him. "I never should have fucking had kids."

Dean cried, "I'm sorry, sorry," but his pleas were ignored.

"You ain't sorry yet," his father mocked. "But you're gonna be. Quiet," he ordered.

Dean pressed his lips tight, willing the whimpers that threatened to escape to stay silent.

"Up off of the floor."

Dean's leg protested the movement, but he tried anyway, making it halfway before his father's hand wrenched him to his feet.

"You always have to make things difficult, Dean. All you had to do was keep your mouth shut, but you had to go and fuck it all up for yourself like you always do. When I get my belt, you're gonna face the consequences of your actions. You hear me?"

_No_, Dean thought. _"No_."

"What did you say to me?!"

Dean knew it was his chance to take it away, but he didn't. "No," he said. "No more hitting me. It's not… You can't."

His father growled in anger, but Dean ignored him, focusing solely on escape. All he had to do was make it outside, just to the back door, and he'd be safe. Just ten feet away lied freedom.

He threw his arms out and lifted his leg, kicking, screaming, just trying to loosen his father's hold.

"Mother _fucker_!" his father exclaimed when his knee connected.

He threw Dean away from him and cradled his stomach in his arms.

Free of his father's grasp, Dean tried to turn and run, but he'd forgotten about his leg. One step, and he fell back, tripping over the dead weight of his limb and catching the lip of the table on the way down.

The world was fuzzy around him only seconds before it went black. His limbs were numb when he tried to reach out for help. Then everything slipped away, no more thoughts in his mind as they were consumed by the closing darkness.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pull himself out.

And, eventually, it didn't matter anymore. With a final breath, everything that made Dean who he was, was gone.

End.

* * *

_**A/N: Despite what people believe, it **_**can**_** be too late to help. As soon as suspicion arises is the best time to report child abuse. **_

_**For those of you who want a little more, **_**Dean Lies**_**, a companion piece, is available to read on my profile as well. It follows Sam after school during the third chapter of this fic. **_


End file.
